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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25194883">Respite</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/IceEckos12/pseuds/IceEckos12'>IceEckos12</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>we have time yet, dear [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Blindness, Gerry lives AU, M/M, Martin POV, Pre-Slash, season four au</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 09:09:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,057</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25194883</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/IceEckos12/pseuds/IceEckos12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><em>“Jon.” Gerry’s voice is neutral but not unfriendly when he picks up. It’s a mark of how pathetic Jon’s life has become that it’s the warmest reception he’s had in weeks. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”</em><br/> <br/><em>Jon grits his teeth. “It’s about your father. And...I need a favor.”</em></p><p> </p><p>Martin turns Jon away. Despite all evidence to the contrary, he is not Jon's last resort.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>we have time yet, dear [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1825162</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>642</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Respite</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>this oneshot was really just an excuse to write a jgm au. this will hurt a little, but there will be a sequel and it will only be ot3 fluff :3</p><p>ALSO gratuitous use of the theory that if the archivist had been blinded then all the assistants would have been released as well</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There’s a phone number in Jon’s phone.</p><p>It’s not one he calls or texts often, and even when he does, he deletes all evidence of the communication afterward. The person on the other end had asked for his discretion, especially in light of his lingering health conditions, and Jon had more than understood the intent behind that request.</p><p>It’s difficult to hide things when your boss is an almost omniscient agent of an all seeing Eye, but he...he manages, the same way he’s been managing ever since he woke up from his coma.</p><p>This is too important not to call, though.</p><p>“Jon.” Gerry’s voice is neutral but not unfriendly when he picks up. It’s a mark of how pathetic Jon’s life has become that it’s the warmest reception he’s had in weeks. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”</p><p>Jon grits his teeth. “It’s about your father. And...I need a favor.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Several days after Martin turned Jon away, a week after that conversation that he still turns over and over in his head, wondering whether or not he made the right decision—something in his chest snaps.</p><p>It’s a connection he hadn’t noticed until he was sitting on the floor of the break room, gasping at its absence, broken mug and tea splattered all over the floor. For a second he wonders if it has something to do with the Lonely, or Peter, but—that’s not right. The Lonely, it’s peeling away human connection bit by tedious bit, a slow descent into numbness. This is so...so <em> sudden, </em>and it touches a different part of him, a deeper part.</p><p>A part which is now gone.</p><p>He’s still reeling over the sudden rush, still trying to decide if this is a supernatural thing or if his appendix has gone and burst or something, when Basira crashes into the break room.</p><p>They look at each other, just for a second, and Martin just <em> knows </em>.</p><p>“You too?” he asks, like he hasn’t been avoiding her and the others for weeks, like he can just pick up where he left off.</p><p>“Yeah,” Basira says, massaging her chest. “Do you know—”</p><p>“No idea.” Martin shakes his head and slowly, laboriously, rises to his feet. He still feels weird, but he can’t decide whether or not it’s a bad feeling. “Elias—”</p><p>“I’ll go ask,” and there’s a dangerous gleam in her eyes, the promise that she <em> will </em>get an answer regardless of what Elias has to say about the matter.</p><p> </p><p>Elias is gone by the time Basira gets there. Martin can’t even bring himself to be surprised.</p><p> </p><p>Melanie is the first to realize it.</p><p>Martin doesn’t even think about how weird it is that she hasn’t been to the Institute in several weeks until she calls Basira. He’s just—he’s distracted. Peter vanished off the face of the planet when Elias did, and he’s trying not to read too much into that while simultaneously reading too much into it, and it’s <em> hard </em> to be around people again, and <em> Jon </em>—</p><p>He’s just...trying not to think about it.</p><p>But then Melanie calls Basira, and Basira gets an odd look on her face that has Martin staring back at her inquisitively. She nods a few times, says her thank yous, and then hangs up the phone.</p><p>“I think we can leave the Institute,” she says faintly.</p><p>Martin stares at her blankly. “I’m sorry?”</p><p>“Melanie hasn’t been back here in two weeks, and she says that she’s fine.” Basira slowly moves to sit down, shoulders taut, eyes distant. Daisy, who’s folded herself into one corner of the room, watches and says nothing. Martin knows she’s worried about Jon, though. “So I think...I think we can leave the Institute.”</p><p>Martin lets out a nervous burst of laughter before he can think to hold it back. “That’s—that’s it, then?” he knows he sounds hysterical, but he doesn’t care. “Just like that?”</p><p>Basira says nothing, but her mouth pulls into a disapproving frown that speaks volumes. Daisy, scarred and skinny, a constant ache hiding behind her eyes, shifts but stays quiet.</p><p>He wrestles with his words for a moment, trying to figure out how to get them out without screaming. Trying to figure out how to <em> breathe </em>without screaming.</p><p>“It’s not fair,” he manages finally, his voice shredded and raw. Jon as Martin last saw him, tired and pained, flinching at even a kind touch, appears in his mind. “That we get this and Jon doesn’t.”</p><p>Still, Basira lets the silence stretch on. Just like that, Martin knows that she doesn’t believe that, that she would’ve given up Jon a million times over to get out, that she thinks he was a monster. Maybe even that he <em> deserved </em>it, and the thought hits him like a slap to the face.</p><p>Martin can’t be here any longer. He turns on his heel and walks out.</p><p> </p><p>One month after Jon disappears, Martin gets a text on his phone. More than that, he gets a text on his phone from <em> Jon. </em></p><p>He...doesn’t know what to think at first. In all likelihood, it’s not Jon. Probably the people—or person?—who finally got their hands on the Archivist. But he can’t deny the fact that the text (a short one, just an address) makes his breath catch in his chest, makes traitorous hope bloom like a delicate flower.</p><p>He’s impatient and jittery as he plugs the address into his browser, tapping his foot against the ground, telling himself <em> don’t get your hopes up. </em>He can’t get his hopes up. This—this could destroy him if he lets it.</p><p>(He might just let it. He might. What does he have to lose?)</p><p>The location loads. Martin’s heart stops.</p><p> </p><p>The hospital is small, and on the other side of London from the Institute. Martin shifts back and forth in the waiting room, trying to muster up the will to approach the front desk. He’s saved from having to do so by someone pointedly clearing their throat very close to his ear.</p><p>Martin turns, startled, and comes face to face with a man. He’s tall and pale, wearing all black, from his sturdy boots to his trenchcoat to his flat cap, which sits low enough that it hides the upper half of his face.</p><p>“Martin Blackwood?” the man asks quietly. His hands are tucked into his pockets.</p><p>Martin nods slowly, glaring the stranger up and down, not entirely convinced that this isn’t a trap. It was silly of him to come here alone, but he couldn’t have stayed away even if he’d wanted to. “Yes.”</p><p>The man hums. “Come on.”</p><p>Oh, <em> hell </em>no. Martin shakes his head, stands his ground. “You were the one who sent me this address?”</p><p>A pause. “Yes.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“You want to see Jon, don’t you?” the man tips the hat back just enough so that Martin can get a peek at two light grey eyes.</p><p>Martin falls silent. The man nods, checks them both in, and leads him down the hall with a confidence that speaks of familiarity.</p><p>“Who are you?” Martin asks cautiously after a few moments of silence.</p><p>There’s a pause, a moment’s hesitation. And then, “Gerard Keay.”</p><p>Martin stops walking and stares. “Jon...told us that you had died.”</p><p>Gerard nods like this isn’t news to him, grey eyes distant. “Yes. I asked him to.”</p><p>Martin almost asks why, before he remembers the clusterfuck that is the Magnus Institute and shuts his mouth.</p><p> </p><p>Jon has always been a small man.</p><p>The day Martin met Jon, that had been his first thought. <em> Short, </em> his mind had echoed, just before <em> rude </em> and <em> high standards </em> and <em> brilliant. </em>Jon’s experiences with the entities have only diminished him over the years, turned his jawline jagged, thinned his wrists, curved his shoulders protectively inward, like a hedgehog curling up on itself.</p><p>Martin stands in the doorway to that hospital room, and the air rushes out of him all at once. Because—</p><p>Jon’s normally bronze skin is sallow beneath the white bandage over his eyes. His arms and legs are wrapped up in bandages, and every breath barely stirs his thin chest. He looks the way he should’ve looked when he’d been in the coma after the Unknowing, small and hastily stitched back together.</p><p>Martin swallows, dread an unwelcome, familiar presence. He can’t stop looking at the bandage over Jon’s eyes, can’t stop thinking about what that means.</p><p>“What, um.” He swallows, his throat clicking dryly, because <em> maybe </em>he’s wrong. “What happened?”</p><p>“Jon asked me to help him,” Gerard says casually, like the request had meant nothing to him, like it <em> means </em>nothing to him. “So I did.”</p><p>Martin whips around, buries his hands in Gerard’s collar, and <em> heaves </em>him against the wall. They stare at each other, nose to nose, the only sign of Gerard’s alarm a slight widening of his eyes.</p><p>“He could have <em> died,” </em> Martin snarls. His anger is a cold, sudden, furious thing, and he knows that much of it isn’t directed at Gerard. <em> Most </em> of it isn’t directed at Gerard, but Jon is lying pale and quiet in the bed and Martin <em> hadn’t thought that Jon had been serious. </em></p><p>
  <em> Who are you kidding, Jon? You’re not going to do any of that. </em>
</p><p>“He knew,” Gerard says, cautiously laying a hand over Martin’s fists. “He was willing to take that risk.”</p><p>Martin <em> knows </em> this. It’s no great surprise that Jon would be willing to risk his life to be free of the Institute, to be free of the hunger and the mistrust and the unanswerable questions regarding his own humanity. Jon has risked his life for less, and somewhere amongst the Lonely and the Extinction and Peter, Martin forgot that. And oh, that <em> hurts. </em></p><p>He remembers Jon’s face, how haggard and thin it had been. He remembers the way the man’s eyes had shined as he talked about escaping the Institute with Martin, and—<em> and— </em></p><p>Martin had turned him away. More than that, Martin had practically <em> laughed him out of the room. </em></p><p>He releases his grip on Gerard’s collar, his anger escaping from him like air from a balloon, leaving a familiar numbness behind. It’s comforting, this numbness, this blanket that descends over his skin, muffling the world, the pain.</p><p>“Hey,” Gerard says sharply, jostling Martin’s arms. “That’s not going to help either of you. Stop that.”</p><p>Before Martin can open his mouth to retort, there’s a low, quiet groan from behind. Martin freezes, and Gerard lets out a noise that sounds like a curse and shakes him off before walking briskly to Jon’s side.</p><p>“Hey Jon,” Gerard murmurs, taking one of Jon’s hands.</p><p>“Hi.” Jon’s voice is thready and sleep-roughened, but Martin feels his knees go weak all the same. “I—I thought I heard you talking to someone?”</p><p>Gerard shoots Martin a look that he can’t quite interpret. “Martin came by.”</p><p>Jon freezes for a moment, lips parting. “...oh. Is he still, um…”</p><p>Gerard doesn’t even hesitate. “He’s still here.”</p><p>Martin wishes that he could’ve had a few more minutes to prepare. He wishes that he could’ve had another <em> week </em> to prepare, think about all the things that he’d done wrong and all the things that he <em> wishes </em>he would have done, but—but he is here, and Jon is here. There is nothing else to do except step forward, take a deep breath, and say, “Hello, Jon.”</p><p>Martin’s not sure what sort of reaction he was expecting. A verbal reproach for forcing Jon to go through this ordeal with someone who is essentially a stranger? Disappointment that bleeds like acid from the tongue, burning all it touches?</p><p>He’s not expecting for Jon to reflexively squeeze Gerard’s hand, for him to catch his lip between his teeth and worry at it like he’s digging for blood. “Hello, Martin.”</p><p>Silence falls. Martin hovers there awkwardly, staring at Jon, searching for words and coming up blank. Gerard seems content to watch Martin with his steady, clear grey gaze, and keep Jon’s fingers tucked in his. Jon’s head is tipped down and to the side, like he’s listening very hard to the silence.</p><p>Jon is the one who eventually  speaks. He swallows, his throat bobbing, and says, “Gerry. Would you mind…”</p><p>“Okay,” Gerard responds promptly, amiably, like he was just waiting for Jon to ask. He squeezes Jon’s hand again before letting it drop to the covers, and Jon curls the appendage to his chest. “Just give a shout if you need anything.”</p><p>“Thanks,” Jon whispers.</p><p>And then they’re alone.</p><p>Although it may sound counterintuitive, Martin has always thought that it was easy to be lonely in a crowd. It’s almost impossible <em> not </em>to be, what with everyone going about their individual lives, orbiting around you without the slightest idea that you exist beyond being an obstacle to be avoided. On the other hand, it’s also very easy to be lonely when you’re alone, for...obvious reasons.</p><p>For the past several months, he has been one way or the other: surrounded by crowds and utterly invisible, or completely alone. So right now, standing in front of Jon, knowing that the man is completely focused on him—</p><p>It’s agitating. Even despite Jon’s blindness, despite the fact that the Beholding isn’t looking at them anymore, he feels too <em> seen. </em>It makes his fingers fidget anxiously, makes him grind the toe of his shoe into the ground. If Jon can hear him he doesn’t let on, just keeps his gaze pointed down and away.</p><p>“You didn’t correct me,” Martin says. He’s not sure the words are right even as he says them, but he doesn’t think there’s a right way to broach a topic like this.</p><p>Jon winces, his head bobbing from one side to the other. “...no.”</p><p>It’s like a dam has burst. <em> “Dammit, </em> Jon!” Martin swears, his emotions far, far too close to the surface. He’s not sure what to do with them, not after months of suppressing and numbing himself to the hurt. “Why the hell not? If I’d known—I didn’t—you shouldn’t have <em> done </em>this!”</p><p>Jon swallows and opens his mouth to speak, but Martin’s words continue to pour from him like the tide rushing in. He couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. “How could you be so selfish? After everything I did, after everything I <em> sacrificed, </em> and <em> Tim, </em> god, you were just—what, going to give up? You can’t, Jon, you just <em> can’t, </em>not when you and I are the only ones left—” he breaks off, incensed, almost too angry to speak.</p><p>Jon has stopped trying to interrupt him, and his hands are now curled tight against his chest, his shoulders hunched, making him look even smaller than he already was. That cowed body language, the tight set of Jon’s jaw—that pisses Martin off even more, somehow. He’s just <em> taking </em> it, why isn’t he fighting <em> back? </em></p><p>“Of <em> course </em> you had to take the easy way out, you couldn’t have just <em> let me—” </em></p><p>He’s not sure how long he would’ve shouted if it hadn’t happened.</p><p>He’s ranting and pacing, throwing all the anger and bitterness he’s been suppressing at Jon, when his hand accidentally slams against one of the cabinets. The impact is loud and sudden and even Martin jumps a little at the unexpected noise, but Jon—</p><p>His whole body flinches, and his breathing becomes so loud that it echoes in the hospital room, harsh and frantic. His shoulders draw ever tighter, and his lips move lightly, soundlessly, and he looks—</p><p>Martin abruptly stops moving and <em> stares </em>at Jon, all his anger leaving him all in a rush, replaced with icy shock. He feels like someone’s just slapped him across the face. He feels like he’s about to throw up.</p><p>“Jon,” Martin whispers unsteadily, lowering his hands to his sides. “Jon, I’m not going to hurt you.”</p><p>Oh, <em> god. </em> Jon is trembling slightly now, and <em> why </em> had Martin thought that shouting and getting angry at a traumatized, newly blinded man was a good idea? Why hadn’t the parts of the image—the tense set of his shoulders, the repetitive bob of his throat, the hands pressed protectively to his chest—resolved into a whole earlier? And now Jon is shivering, gnawing on his lip, the fabric of his shirt wrapped tightly around his fingers and <em> Martin did that. </em></p><p>He wants to fall back into the Lonely so badly that it hurts, but—he has to fix this. He cannot leave this as it is, with Jon shaking and terrified of <em> Martin </em>.</p><p>Martin takes a steadying breath, then another. Forces himself to think calmly, to think rationally, to set his anger aside for later, when things aren’t so fragile.</p><p>And then he steps forward, tapping his shoes against the floor to give warning of his approach. “Can I sit down?”</p><p>Jon simply breathes, and for a couple of seconds Martin thinks that he’s going to shake his head, that he’s going to call Gerard back inside. It’s what Martin would deserve.</p><p>Instead he nods, a small and hesitant movement. Martin lets out a low, slow breath of relief and approaches, settling his weight on the edge of the bed. Jon tenses when he feels the bed shift, looking as though he’s mere seconds away from bolting, never mind the fact that there’s nowhere to bolt <em> to. </em></p><p>“I’m sorry for scaring you,” Martin says, because he is. He’s not sorry for getting mad at Jon for making a stupid, rash decision, but he <em> is </em>sorry for shouting.</p><p>Jon huffs a dry laugh, lowering his hands to the bed. They’re trembling finely. “It’s...it’s fine. It’s...easy to startle me, I’m afraid. Loud noises.” He laughs again like he’s trying to make a joke of it, <em> oh, silly Jon, jumping at all the sounds in the dark. </em></p><p>Martin’s stomach clenches, and his voice is sharper than he intended it to be when he says, “Don’t laugh.”</p><p>Jon jerks backward, and once more Martin curses himself, the Lonely, whoever it was that turned him impatient and prickly. He used to be kind, once. Understanding. He reaches for that now, trying to remember the words, the steps in the dance.</p><p>“Don’t joke about it,” Martin spells out, trying to make sure that Jon understands, trying to be the person who can <em> make </em> Jon understand. He has the brief urge to reach out and touch, to take Jon’s hand like Gerard had done earlier, but he’s unsure it would be well received. “There’s...there’s nothing funny about you being afraid. You shouldn’t feel—you shouldn’t <em> have </em>to feel afraid.”</p><p>Jon is quiet for a moment, chewing his lip, fiddling with the edge of his blanket. Then he says, in the tone of one admitting a dark secret, “I don’t...know how else to feel.”</p><p> </p><p> Martin closes the door carefully behind him, making sure that the impact isn’t too loud. Jon has only just fallen asleep, and it’s clear how much he needs the rest.</p><p>Gerard is still waiting outside the hospital room, leaning casually against the wall. One leg is propped against the other, and his flat cap is tilted up so his stormy grey eyes are visible. “He asleep?”</p><p>Martin hums in agreement. “How long ago did you...?”</p><p>“About a month,” Gerard still sounds unconcerned, but Martin is learning to read the agitation the crouches over his shoulders like a shadow.</p><p>That lines up with the timeline in Martin’s head. He nods again, and then asks, “Do you think that he’s in danger?”</p><p>“From another avatar? Probably.” Gerard kicks away from the wall and drifts closer, peering into the hospital room’s window. “There’s a reason I tried not to advertise his location.”</p><p>“What about Elias?”</p><p>When Gerard turns to Martin, his gaze is narrow and a little mean. It strikes Martin then, that he’s positioned himself between Martin and the door. “Why do you care?”</p><p>Martin rears back, feeling as though he’s just been struck. “Excuse me?”</p><p>“Jon came to you for help,” Gerard snaps, growing more and more tense by the second. “And before you get mad at him, he didn’t tell me. I figured it out. He had to call someone who was more or less a stranger and—you’re the only one who’s come looking for him. Was there anyone in those stupid fucking Archives who cared about him?”</p><p>Martin gapes, and his useless mind is only drawing up weeks of turning Jon away, of rebuffing his every attempt to reconnect. Gerard’s accusation hurts, but what hurts even worse is the idea of it being <em> accurate. </em></p><p>“I cared,” Martin finally manages, unable to scrape up anything else. It’s a feeble protest, but it’s the only one he has. “I <em> care.” </em></p><p>Gerard glares at him for another moment—and then he deflates, like all the anger is leaving him at once. He waves his hand, a dismissive gesture that Martin feels like a punch to the gut. “Elias isn’t interested in<em> him </em> anymore. He’s not much use as an Archivist.”</p><p>Martin catches the odd emphasis, and he raises his eyebrows. “You think that he’s going to try and do whatever he was planning on doing to Jon to someone <em> else?” </em></p><p>“Of course,” Gerard says that like it’s obvious. “What, you think he’s just going to <em> give up?” </em></p><p>Martin opens his mouth, realizes that he doesn’t have a response, and shuts it again. He scuffs his shoe against the floor, glancing up and down the hall. “Are you...are you going to try to stop him?”</p><p>“Why?” Gerard raises his eyebrows. “You want to help or something?”</p><p>“I—” Martin has never been as off-kilter as he is now, talking to Gerard. The man is an enigma, dashing all of Martin’s expectations to pieces, all with that same unimpressed glare. “Are you asking if I <em>want</em> to help?”</p><p>Gerard pauses, considering. “Do you?”</p><p>They both stare at each other, half bewildered, half cautious. Martin sees the second that Gerard realizes that <em> taking down Elias together </em>was a hypothetical scenario up until the moment Martin actually expressed an interest in it. Martin recognizes the feeling, largely because he’s having the exact same epiphany.</p><p>“Sure,” Martin decides. “Yeah, why not?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Three months later, and Martin is standing in his, Jon, and Gerry’s living room, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. They only had four boxes between the three of them, which is as depressing as it is understandable. Gerry’s been on the run for basically as long as he’s been alive, and Jon and Martin had been living out of the Archives right up until Jon had quit.</p><p>“That the last of them?” Gerry asks, his hair twirled into a high bun. Martin’s gaze lingers on his undyed roots, and the scar along his jaw that he’d received from Jonah’s cane. Martin has a matching mark on his shoulder that still aches when it rains.</p><p>“Yeah,” Martin says, nodding. He turns to Jon, who’s been sitting on the couch, his computer perched on his thin legs, one earbud in his ear. “Jon? Did you want to take a walk around the apartment? Get your bearings?”</p><p>Jon takes the earbud out, folds the laptop, and gets to his feet. He looks much better than he did three months ago. He still has a limp, though, and on especially bad days Gerry will dig his fingers into the calf muscles, trying to loosen the stiffness. “Did you know that they allow small animals in the apartment building?”</p><p>Gerry wanders over and tucks Jon’s arm against his side. Jon’s so used to the gesture that his only reaction is to lean against Gerry, smiling faintly. “Are you trying to tell us something, Jon?”</p><p>“Perhaps,” Jon sniffs, but his haughty demeanor is belied by the way the laugh lines around his eyes tighten, just a little.</p><p>Gerry shoots a sly grin Martin’s way, and he smiles helplessly back, feeling warm all the way down to his toes. He wants to capture this moment and tuck it into a bottle, trap it so he can study and covet it when he’s alone. He wants to treat this apartment of theirs like a passing respite, like a temporary shelter from the storm of his life.</p><p>He knows better than to grasp too tightly, though.</p><p>They will have many more moments like this, after all.</p>
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